In looking around me on this beautiful scene of hospitality, I am
reminded of that doge of Genoa, who, finding himself amid the splendors
of Versailles, in its incomparable palace, and being asked what about
him caused the most surprise, replied, “To find myself here.” And so to
me, coming from other scenes, and for many years absolutely unused to
such occasions, this spectacle is strange. But it is not less welcome
because strange.
Coming here to take part in this interesting celebration, I am not
insensible to the kindness of good friends among you, through whom the
invitation was received. But I confess a neighborly interest in your
festival. Born in Boston, and educated in Cambridge, I am one of your
neighbors. Accept, then, if you please, the sympathies of a neighbor on
this occasion.
Yours is not a large town; nor has it any extended history. But
what it wants in size and history it makes up in beauty. Yours is a
beautiful town. I know nothing among the exquisite surroundings of
Boston more charming than these slopes and meadows, with background
of hills and gleam of water. The elements of beauty are all here.
Hills are always beautiful; so is water. I remember hearing a woman
of genius, Mrs. Fanny Kemble, say more than once, that water in a
landscape is “like eyes in the human countenance,” without which the
countenance is lifeless. But water gleams, shines, sparkles in your
landscape. Here the water-nymphs might find a home. Gardens, beautiful
to the eye and bountiful in nourishing and luscious supplies, are also
yours. Surely it may be said of those who live here, that their lines
have fallen in a pleasant place.
I go too far, when I suggest that you are without a history. West
Cambridge was part of that historic Cambridge so early famous in our
country, the seat of learning and the home of patriotism. The honor of
Cambridge is yours. West Cambridge adjoins Lexington, and was in the
war-path of the British soldiers on that 19th of April, which, perhaps,
as much as any day after the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, determined
the fortunes of this continent. The shots of Concord and Lexington were
heard here before their echoes began the tour of the globe. Shots from
here followed, and your beautiful fields bore testimony in blood. The
road from Concord was a prolonged battleground, on which British troops
fell; there were patriots, also, who fell.
Then came the Battle of Bunker Hill, on the very day we now celebrate,
followed soon by the arrival of Washington, who, on the 3d day of
July, 1775, drew his sword as Commander-in-Chief under the well-known
elm of Cambridge Common. Do not forget that you were of Cambridge
then. The first duty of the new commander-in-chief was to inspect his
forces. The mass of the British army, amounting to 11,500 men, occupied
Bunker Hill and Boston Neck, while their general with his light horse
was in Boston. The Patriot forces, amounting to about 16,000 men, were
so posted as to form a complete line around Boston and Charlestown,
from Mystic River to Dorchester, nearly twelve miles in circuit.
Regiments from New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Connecticut occupied
Winter Hill and Prospect Hill, where it is easy still to recognize
their earthworks; several of the Massachusetts regiments were at
Cambridge; and others from Connecticut and Massachusetts covered the
high grounds of Roxbury. This was the Siege of Boston. With all these
preparations, Washington was still provident of the future. And here
commences an association with the hills about your town, which must be
my justification for these details.
Many years ago, when I first read the account of this period by
one of the early biographers of Washington, Rev. Dr. Bancroft, of
Worcester, the father of our distinguished historian, I was struck by
the statement, which I quote in his precise words, that, “in case of
an attack and defeat, the _Welsh Mountains in Cambridge_, and the rear
of the lines in Roxbury, were appointed as places of rendezvous.”[227]
Perhaps this association, and even the name of the mountains, may be
new to some whom I have the honor of addressing. “The Welsh Mountains”
are the hills which skirt your peaceful valley. Since then I have
never looked upon them, even at a distance, I have never thought of
them, without feeling that they are monumental. They testify to that
perfect prudence which made our commander-in-chief so great. In those
hours when undisciplined patriots were preparing for conflict with the
trained soldiers of England, the careful eye of Washington, calmly
surveying the whole horizon, selected your hills as the breastworks
behind which he was to retrieve the day. The hills still stand firm and
everlasting as when he looked upon them, but smiling now with fertility
and peace. They will never be needed as breastworks. There is no enemy
encamped in Boston and ready to sally forth for battle; nor is there
any siege.
But you will allow me to remind you that the ideas of the Revolution
and the solemn promises of the Declaration of Independence are still
debated. There are some who have the hardihood to deny them. Here I
venture to bespeak from you the simple loyalty of those whose places
you occupy. Should an evil hour arrive, when these ideas and promises
are in peril, then let them find a breastwork, not in your hills, but
in your hearts. And may the rally extend until it embraces the whole
country, and the Revolution begun by our fathers is completed by the
establishment of all the rights of all!